what's the antonym for shred? i think i want that

I’m trying to get into shape, ideally any shape that a) doesn’t resemble a potato and b) makes it easier to pick up a potato. And so a friend gave me a Jillian Michael’s workout video called 30 Day Shred. 30 Day Shred; I was immediately drawn to that title. Shred… shredding doesn’t sound too intimidating. I mean I’m used to shredding things. Like paper. Confidential tax information. Counterfeit money in times of police raid. I can shred with my eyes closed! Of course the manufacturer doesn’t recommend it. But I love shredded cheese. Also Frosted Shredded Mini Wheats. Yes, the more I thought about it, the more I knew this workout was for me.

I had to fill empty vodka and waragi (local gin) bottles with water to use in lieu of weights because, not surprisingly, there’s no sporting goods store in Kisoro. If there were a sporting goods store I’m thinking the equipment section would just have babies and hoes and giant sacks of coal; people here don’t exactly need Jillian to tell them to get on down to the borehole. But because I’m a fan of irony and I’m pretty sure my old friend waragi is the reason I need so much shredding anyway, I really don’t mind using the bottles.

What I really do mind, two workouts in, is the overall working out part of the video. It’s like What we have here is a woman who has esentially turned indecisiveness into a workout. First we’re on the floor. Then we’re up doing jumping jacks. Then back to the floor. Why didn’t we just stay here in the first place? And what is this strange, painful sensation? Oh, I see, that’s what muscle contraction feels like…wait, back up? Seriously? And now we’re jumping rope without a rope? Why no rope? That’s lame. I should just use a rope. What’s it to her anyway? Look at her face. She thinks she’s soooo…no, not the floor again! Let’s just stay up here imaginary jump roping! I swear I love pretending there’s a rope. No, I didn’t call it lame. You’re lame! Don’t make me get back down on the floor. It’s dirty and there are tiny spiders. I wish this waragi bottle wasn’t filled with water.

Two workouts in. Just two workouts and I can no longer stand the thought of shredding. Seriously, when I go home and start working as a nurse, I’m just going to throw patient information on the floor when I’m through with it. I’m going to eat my cheese in block form. Shredded Mini Wheats? No thanks, I’ll just pop a vanilla Tic Tac and chew on a wheat stalk. Ugandans don’t even know how lucky they have it! Don’t go to the borehole, die of dehydration. Don’t go out and dig in the garden, die of starvation. Now there’s an ultimatum that would probably motivate even me.

if you ask me, pogosticks just plain encourage childhood obesity

There’s a truly awful movie playing in Kampala right now involving cheery Hooters waitresses, a perplexing restraining order and an Unstoppable train which proves to be quite stoppable after all. Pretty darn stoppable. So entirely stoppable, in fact, I have to wonder if Hollywood didn’t consider less deceptive alternative titles like Unstoppable for a short time, then quite Stoppable or The train that would eventually slow down until it could only accurately be called Stopped.

My life may not be filled with jumping waitresses, hastily placed restraining orders or awkward dialogue, or at the very least not jumping waitresses, but it also doesn’t cost me 16,000 shillings ($8) and if it did have a title I assure you it would be something honest, something straightforward…something like ‘My bus caught on fire the other day, but it was Stoppable.’ Because the other weekend, after a painfully long day of travel to the capital with just 40 kilometers left to go, my bus caught on fire and I was forced to elegantly jump out of the window to escape. Of course by “elegantly” I mean my skirt fanned out in an extremely elegant manner to reveal my elegantly polka-dotted underwear, which elegant women call delicates, to the group of men standing below. And also that I refrained from stringing together a long series of swear words, which elegant women call expletives, when I felt blood trickling from my elbow and foot, which elegant women call appendages, and instead laced said expletives into a series of elegant sentences in subsequent phone calls to the Peace Corps nurse and my boyfriend, who both quite inexplicably responded with Unstoppable laughter.

Now at least one of these people has literally been trained and certified in sympathy and I’m fairly certain the second grew up in a time and place where neighbors actually did strange things like bake casserole for you when your pet or child died instead of secretly poisoning your pet or child so they could get a full night’s sleep. And so I was understandably confused until I realized the mental image of me jumping from a bus window is actually somewhat funny. I don’t really jump. I hate hopscotch. I break my mother’s back every time I get to a particularly cracked part of the sidewalk. I had a pogostick once but I was never quite heavy enough to coax the pogo down the stick. I had to have a friend literally coach me off the top bunk of an unusually designed hostel bunk bed a few months back and it still took me a full five minutes to get down. And I really had to pee, which elegant women call to tinkle. Also, my reaction speed isn’t great; I thought I felt a spider crawling around inside my shirt yesterday and literally finished my cup of tea before investigating.

Yes, the odds of a successful and timely bus escape were set against me, but given the general state of confusion and panic on the bus and my general lack of familiarity with the word “FIRE!” or the phrase “Calm down white girl, we’re not being hijacked” in even one of Uganda’s 43 colorful languages, I actually thought our bus was being hijacked and was happy to jump. Maybe not as happy to jump as a fake waitress frightened by an altogether stoppable train, but awfully close.

in conclusion, life is amazing

It used to be that I’d be driving along, texting, eating or otherwise distracted by a really good song or the view from Broadway Bridge or the cute little ladybug crawling along my dashboard with three spots, one on the left wing and two on the right wing and wait, didn’t I hear the number of spots indicates something like the number of years the ladybug has been alive or some pessimistic prediction of the number of years I’ll continue to be alive or wait, was it the number of years it’ll take before trans-saturated fats are banned in Oregon’s restaurant system or…and all of a sudden I’d have to slam on my brakes to avoid a run-in with an Audi or some other expensive, living or otherwise unexpected obstacle.

A few weeks back I got a small dose of whiplash that reminded me of the good old days, only in this scenario I was walking distractedly, counting my own spots/freckles which I can only hope are an indicator of my remaining years, humming a really good song to myself since some Kenyan man is appropriately learning all about Radiohead’s Karma Police on my Ipod and all of a sudden, BLAMO, I’m face-to-flank with a giant cow. For description’s sake I’ll clarify it was my face to the cow’s flank, though if you Google image “ankole cattle” you might find more excitement and/or humor in the reverse scenario. Terrifying creatures.

It took a bovine fender-bender to effectively put into perspective how dramatically my life has changed in just over one year and also to remind me what a unique experience this really is. Every day here is completely bizarre and wonderful. Tuesday: sat and watched two crested cranes peck around in the garden directly outside my house for over an hour (…if you Google image “crested crane” you might find more excitement and/or beauty in the scenario). Wednesday: was unexpectedly given the responsibility of naming a friend’s newborn baby. I finally settled on Corrigan, which is not simply Oregon with a C, or at least I don’t think so, or at least I didn’t notice the similarity until it was pointed out by another volunteer, or at least that’s not the only reason I like it. Last night: sat in a village bar with no electricity and learned such vital phrases as “We are drinking beer!” and “We have just finished drinking beer!” and “Gosh, beer is great!” in Rufumbira, albeit slurred Rufumbira, from the man sitting to my right. Afterwards, the man on my left asked me to give him a religion. A word about my soul: I’ve since realized my friend’s request to name his baby stressed me out far more than this second man’s search for spiritual guidance and eternal salvation but since realizing this, I’ve been stressed out enough by the implications of the discovery to make up for my lack of care and concern in the first place. Which essentially puts my soul right back on balance. Phew.

In conclusion, life is amazing. I know that was also the title; I figured if I started out with some sort of intended thesis you might be forced to come to that very conclusion yourself after just 499 jumbled words plus at least one word that’s not a real word at all. On the other hand, maybe a serious case of cow-induced whiplash is just what you need.

i think he’ll pass on your handbag tricks but you're entirely welcome to serve me some breadsticks

I’ve been told the easiest way to distinguish an authentic designer bag from a knock-off is simply by picking it up; evidently there’s a major weight differential between the real Louis Vuitton and his more economical, lighter and equally hideous cousin Louis II. Which brings up such obvious questions as: Why can’t phony cousin Louis get his act together and put on some weight? Why would anyone want to replicate such an ugly bag in the first place? And is the difference in weight simply a matter of the personal belongings which can be found inside a real versus fraudulent Louis Vuitton handbag? Because I’m thinking a gold watch outweighs food stamps.

Questions aside, I find myself wishing there was an easy trick to distinguish between real and fake in all life scenarios. I’m not just talking about products, though this is obviously a useful skill; if I do in fact have Italian ancestry they were probably wholly offended by my wholly distasteful purchase of wholly bogus Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses a few months back but in my defense…it was quite sunny and they were quite cheap. If they were appalled I’m hoping there’s an Olive Garden in the afterlife so I can smooth things out over warm and buttery peacemakers, also known as unlimited breadsticks. And if you’re questioning the authenticity of Olive Garden you should know old Italy was just bursting with green aprons and those small vibrating Thank God, It’s Finally My Turn For A Table devices.

What I really need is some sort of easy way to differentiate all the genuine things in my life from the not-so-genuine things. Take, for example, Kampala this past weekend when I thought I stepped off a genuine curb onto a genuine, solid street and ended up in a genuine hole. Or when I thought a group of women on the street were simply a group of friends, albeit scantily clad friends, until they offered to “serve” the genuinely funny man who let me fall in the above-mentioned hole in the first place. Now I’m not entirely without a doubt sure what they wanted to serve him but I’m guessing that experience would be less than genuine.

It would be especially convenient if I could just use the handbag trick on people. And no, that’s not a new term I learned from the prostitutes in Kampala, although ‘the handbag trick’ does sound like it could bring in top dollar. Or top shilling. What I mean is it would be nice to be able to pick someone up as if they were a questionable handbag and know who they really are and what they’re all about. But the thing about living here and being an outsider is people inevitably change when you’re around. I suspect they’d also change behavior if I tried to hoist them off the ground. It seems the only time I get to see people in an authentic state of being is when I’m traveling and can watch a Uganda pass by my window that’s for the most part completely oblivious to and unaltered by my presence. Luckily, I have ten genuinely sweaty, genuinely bumpy hours of travel time to the capital where I can do exactly that…and not a whole hell-of-a-lot else.

i miss that warm, fuzzy pre-heart attack feeling

Portland, Oregon may have a yearly jazz festival, a yearly beer festival and countless movie festivals to fill those long summer days but the truly worthwhile annual event actually kicks off at the first sign of a snowflake. I’m not referring to the slight frenzy caused by Starbucks’ charmingly snowflake-speckled seasonal coffee cups but to the utter mayhem caused by those tiny, mysterious specks of frozen water so very incomprehensible to my Ugandan neighbors. Each year it seems those tiny, mysterious specks congregate in Portland to conspire against the streets and schools and townspeople. And each year it seems Portland doesn’t expect those mysterious specks and doesn’t have the necessary equipment to deal with those mysterious specks but wholeheartedly and falsely promises to have a proper plan in place for the following year.

I used to appreciate Portland snow days for their ability to completely dismantle my standard routine but ever since moving here, I’ll take any semblance of a routine I can get. I’d even take a routine pap-smear right about now. The best way I can describe day-to-day life here is by saying it’s just like a series of chaotic Portland-esque snow days except the windchill is 70^o F, there are no charming seasonal coffee cups in sight and sadly, my carrots don’t get to fulfill their true destiny as crooked snowman noses.

Ugandan snow days may be completely snow-free but they’re a nonetheless extremely real phenomenon. Of course I’m referring to the overall atmosphere of a snow day rather than an actual weather pattern, which is to say there’s a general state of confusion and uncertainty mixed with an anticipation that anything could happen. Obviously there are minor differences; instead of waking up to excitedly discover school’s been canceled on account of snow, I wake up to upsettingly discover the class I’m scheduled to teach has been canceled on account of….well, I never actually got a clear explanation. And instead of getting to see my breath in the frosty air, I get to see my breath in a giant red cloud of dust. Which seems especially good for my health.

I’ll admit I have a strange, secret recurring hope that one of these days I’ll wake up, run to the window and discover an unexpectedly full day of work. I daydream about the characteristic chest pain that comes from running up three flights of stairs to be on time for a doctor’s appointment. I fantasize about the kind of heart palpitations that precede an exam. In other words, I’m way more of a brainwashed American than I previously thought.